Stepping Into Sunlight

by Sharon Hinck

  “Cool.” He launched to his feet and raced for the back door.

  Still groggy, I followed him to the kitchen and scrounged the cupboards for supper ideas while keeping watch on Bryan through the screen door. He used my gardening trowel to dig a hole, then collected rocks to create a headstone. He plucked dandelions from near the fence to decorate the grave. Should I be worried about how much fun he was having creating a funeral? I’d always pictured myself having tea parties with a tiny daughter in lace-edged socks and dress-up jewelry. Instead God had blessed me with snips and snails and puppy-dog tails. Hard to believe how much joy I’d found in watching my son collect bugs, crash toy trucks, or climb the doorjambs to play Spiderman.

  Laura-Beth called a greeting from her backyard, and Bryan trotted over to the fence to chat. Her voice carried through the screens. “Tell your mom there’s a great place to go crabbing in Portsmouth. You just use some chicken necks for bait.”

  I pulled away from the door, not wanting to hear any more. I didn’t need any advice on crabbing. I’d been crabbing all the time lately.

  With a kettle boiling for pasta, I found some aspirin and guzzled a tall glass of ice water. When Bryan tired of playing with his dead crab, he came inside and reached for a piece of the garlic bread I had pulled from the freezer.

  I grabbed his grubby wrist. “Hold it, buster. Go wash your hands. I’ll put out carrot sticks for a snack.”

  He brushed his hands off against his jeans and looked at me hopefully.

  “No. That doesn’t count. Go wash.” Parenting standards weren’t going to slip just because Tom was at sea.

  With a heavy sigh, he trudged to the bathroom. The faucet ran for about five seconds. I winced as I pictured the condition of the towel after Bryan wiped his dirt-smeared hands.

  He came back to the kitchen only slightly cleaner and hoisted himself onto a stool by the counter. “Are you feeling better, Mommy?”

  I handed him a carrot stick. “What do you mean?”

  “You know. ’Cause you’ve been so sad all the time.”

  Ouch. I thought my mommy façade had fooled him. “Maybe I’m just missing our old house.”

  He gave a sage nod. “Me too. But know what? I like the ocean. Can we go there again tomorrow? ’Cause know what? We’re s’posed to get more shells. Mrs. Pimple says so.”

  “Mrs. Pimblott.”

  “Yeah. And I need a bucket to carry them. Can we go to the store?”

  “Honey, you have school tomorrow—”

  “I kno-ow.” He blew his bangs upward with a huff. “But we can go after, right? It’s a good idea, Mom.”

  I tweaked his nose. “You think everything is a good idea.”

  He missed the sarcasm and nodded. “Know what? If we go to the beach, I could find another pet.”

  Oh, lovely. “Hey, buddy, there’s an e-mail here for you from Dad. Why don’t you go read it…”

  He’d already torn out of the kitchen. I smiled as I finished getting supper on the table. Before bedtime, Bryan dictated a long response to Tom, describing his new friends, his favorite teachers, and the sad demise of the latest pet attempt. I imagined the sound of Tom’s deep-chested laugh as he finished a tough day of work and opened his e-mails from home.

  ———Friday I spent most of the day on the couch while Bryan was at school. It wasn’t like me to lie around all day. Some part of me knew I should be worried about the lassitude and heaviness throughout my body, and the foggy disinterest in life that had invaded my brain. But I wrote it off as a mysterious virus. That’s probably what had hit me at the grocery store—the latest bug going around.

  Still, I felt guilty for the sluggish day. When Bryan got home from school with a list of “Great Family Outings” from his teacher, and begged to do something fun, I promised him a quick Saturday trip to a nearby botanical garden, complete with boat ride.

  The next morning, Bryan was almost jumping out of his Nikes with excitement, giving me no chance to back out. I still felt bloodless and weak. Tying my shoes took huge effort. Gathering my hair back in a ponytail nearly exhausted me. Even the car keys felt heavy in my hands. I picked up my purse, then hesitated in the doorway. Going outside suddenly felt like a bad idea. Bryan pushed past me and ran out to the car. I shook off the ripple of anxiety. We were going to have fun. Not just fun. We were going to have an amazing day so I could e-mail Tom all about it. I was sick of the careful, concerned questions he kept sending me and longed for the easy bantering we used to share. I needed to convince him that everything was fine.

  Bryan filled the drive to the botanical garden with a running description of everything happening at school. The words lapped around my ears, soft and non-threatening. My occasional murmurs kept him going. He was a low-maintenance boy when he was buckled in and free to talk as much as he wanted. Now that I was out of the house and moving, my anxiety receded. Sunlight and shadow flickered in turns across the windshield and I had to keep blinking to stay alert.

  When we reached the Norfolk Botanical Garden, we paid our entrance fee and grabbed a map. Bryan ran ahead, then back again, hooked to me by an invisible bungee cord. I strolled slowly, taking deep breaths. Tall loblolly pines reminded me of Wisconsin forests, but a display of pink butterfly bushes startled me with brilliant colors that would have faded by now back home.

  “Mom, I’m thirsty.”

  Fallen petals wilted on the gravel path. I ground a few under the toe of my shoe as if they were cigarette butts. “We left the juice boxes in the car.”

  He clutched his throat. “But I’m dying. Can’t we buy some pop?”

  “Maybe on our way out. Come on. There’s a fern garden up ahead.”

  “Then let’s go.” He tugged me along. The sunshine and vibrant shades of green gave me hope. The paths called for me to explore. My old self flickered to life, shaking off the strange, lifeless person who had abducted my body for the past weeks.

  A group of retired ladies in red hats passed us on their way to the tropical garden. As our path opened out we saw young moms pushing strollers on the other side of a wide canal.

  I took a deep breath. So far, so good. “You’re right, bucko. This was a good idea.”

  A snowy egret posed on the edge of a pond, a perfect image to inspire stillness and peace. Maybe I’d be able to handle this after all. Not just today’s outing, but also the weeks ahead.

  “How come Dad quit his other job?” Bryan picked up a rock and skimmed it across the pond. The egret eyed him with disdain.

  “He believed God wanted him to become a chaplain.”

  “But how did he know?”

  “He talked to friends he trusted. He prayed. He listened to God.”

  There. I still had it in me. The Good Mom with the spiritually nurturing words to offer my child. It was important to keep showing my son a polished image of God—even if my own picture of Him had become matte and dull in recent days. “We always want to be ready to go where God asks us, right?”

  He squinted out at the water. “I guess.”

  I ruffled his hair. “Don’t sound so excited about it. Hey, the kids’ vegetable garden is up ahead.”

  “When do we ride the boat?”

  “After that. I promise.”

  We followed a wide walkway toward the next section of the garden. Pounding footsteps and a shout intruded over the sounds of fountains and birdcalls. Three young men burst from around a turn of the path.

  One ran in front, laughing, a blur of denim under a black baseball cap. He brandished an iPod overhead. Another boy in a sweat-streaked T-shirt charged after, with a heavyset third friend on his heels. “Give that back. I’m gonna kill you.” The second teen’s voice was breathy with laughter. My rational mind heard that.

  A deeper primal center of my brain didn’t.

  He lurched sideways in a misstep as he passed us, jostling against me. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  I stumbled back with a gasp. Then I couldn’t breathe. Stark fear crashed into me, wipi
ng out the sunlight and birds and trees.

  “I’m gonna kill you.”

  The path came up to meet me and my knees hit a layer of woodchips. What would the red-hat ladies think if they saw me face down on the trail? I could always pretend I was searching for a contact lens. I tried to laugh, but my heart exploded like a pheasant’s wings on the first day of hunting season.

  “Mom?”

  Bryan. I couldn’t pass out. Bryan needed me. Then coherent thought fled.

  chapter

  3

  “I’M SORRY. I’M SORRY. I’m so sorry.” The mantra of the embarrassed and unstable. I chanted it as a park staffer helped me to my feet. Bryan’s yells had brought her from a nearby garden with impressive speed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered between labored breaths. Don’t want to attract attention. Don’t want to try to explain. Don’t want this uniformed woman practicing her rusty CPR skills on me.

  “Should we call an ambulance?” The young staffer’s voice rose in pitch, as if my panic was contagious.

  “No, really. I’m fine. Just a little light-headed.” I rested my hands on my thighs.

  She frowned. “Can you walk? We can get you to our first-aid station.”

  “Some big guys crashed into her.” Bryan skipped in place, apparently more intrigued than frightened by the spectacle of his mom hitting the deck.

  “Do you want to file a report?”

  “No.” I panted. “An accident. My car?”

  “Sure, I can help you to your car, but don’t you want me to call someone?”

  I shook my head.

  She supported my elbow, and we began the long walk back to the entrance. Bryan chattered at the woman the whole way, but I didn’t listen. Instead, I focused on holding back the dizziness that crowded my senses.

  Maybe something was really wrong. I’d never felt this woozy and disoriented before. And my chest ached from my heart’s crazy effort. Hadn’t a morning talk show reported that women were often unaware when they were having a heart attack?

  I led the way to our car. “Where’s the closest urgent care?” I pressed my hands against my chest to keep my heart inside my rib cage.

  Bryan glared at me. “But we didn’t ride the boat yet.”

  The woman jotted directions on a piece of paper. “It’s only a mile from here. But are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “I’m not used to the heat, that’s all. I’m from Wisconsin.”

  “Oh.” Her brows climbed as if that explained a lot.

  I shooed Bryan into the car and grabbed the paper. “Thanks.” Short breath. “For your.” Gasp. “Help.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and was still shaking her head as she retreated to the visitor center.

  I settled into the car, and dust motes floated up from the dashboard. Not a place I’d choose to die. Who wanted their last sight of planet Earth to be a tree-shaped air freshener and a crumpled juice box? Hear that, heart-o-mine? You can’t give out now.

  Somehow I kept moving—through the drive to urgent care, Bryan’s nonstop questions, the explanation to the receptionist, and my quick-change into an ugly paper gown. Bryan explored every drawer in the room and pilfered a few wooden tongue depressors. Then he read a Highlights magazine while swinging his legs in annoyance.

  Gradually, my heart stopped doing flamenco triplets.

  Murphy’s Law. You could put off seeing your doctor about a wicked rash . . . fighting it with oatmeal baths and calamine and enough Benadryl to drug a rhino. But the day you give in and show up at the clinic, the rash has evaporated and the doctor squints at your skin with that look of, “I deal with cancer patients, lady. Why are you wasting my time with a few red spots?”

  By the time the young doctor entered the room, my pulse was close to normal. His exam was efficient but gentle, and he asked questions in a respectful, quiet tone. Aside from the fact that he only looked a few years older than Bryan, I liked him. I explained what had happened and waited for him to scold me for overreacting.

  Instead, he pulled up a stool and folded his stethoscope. “I believe what you experienced was a panic attack.”

  My smile flattened. Maybe he wasn’t so likeable.

  “That doesn’t minimize what you felt,” he said quickly. “It’s a real physiological response and can be frightening. But your heart is fine. Your lungs are fine.” He pulled out a ballpoint and clicked it open and shut. “That’s the good news. Has this happened before?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  He stopped clicking and stared at me, waiting.

  “Um. A couple days ago I felt light-headed at the grocery store. I must be fighting off a flu bug. I’ve been kind of tired.”

  “Have you been under unusual stress?”

  “Mom was in a holdup.” Bryan bent down the corner of his magazine but didn’t look up. “Is that stress?”

  The doctor’s eyes widened.

  “A few weeks ago I was in a Quick Corner that got robbed. It was . . .” I swallowed, unable to continue.

  The Doogie Howser look-alike leaned toward me. “I’m very sorry. Were you injured?”

  A nervous laugh twisted in my throat. “No. I’m fine. Not hurt at all.”

  He waited several seconds in case I had more to say. Then he nodded. “I can refer you to a good counselor. It’s normal to need help processing something like that.”

  Heat bloomed up my neck. He thought I was a nutcase, or some debutante with the vapors (after all, I was in the South now).

  I jumped down from the exam table. “I’m fine.” My declaration would have been more convincing if I hadn’t wobbled.

  “Ma’am, I urge you to talk to someone. If not for yourself, then for your son.” He lowered his voice. “Seeing a mom suffer can be very frightening for a child.”

  I glanced over at Bryan. He was squeezing the bulb of a blood pressure cuff, riveted by the hiss of air. He watched the meter and laughed. Yeah, he was a bundle of nerves.

  My keys rattled as I pulled them from my purse. “I’ve got info about a victim support counselor.”

  The doctor smiled and closed the manila folder, returning pen to pocket. “Good idea. If you have any more problems, follow up with your regular doctor.”

  Remnants of composure helped me nod and thank him, then dress and hustle Bryan out to the car, trying to outrun the heat of embarrassment that crawled just beneath my skin. All I needed was some chicken soup and time to shake off this flu bug.

  They all meant well. First there had been the policewoman at the crime scene, then my mother, and now the doctor, all wanting to convince me to get counseling. I understood the longing to help. Even Tom had suggested I talk to one of the psychologists at the base, or to our pastor. He of all people knew why I couldn’t start down that road.

  I’d seen what counseling had done to my brother.

  Shutting the door on those decades-old memories, I tugged Bryan’s seat belt to check it, then hurried around to my side of the car.

  “You promised we’d have fun today.” My son kicked the back of the seat in front of him. “We didn’t even ride the boat. This. Is. Not. Fun.” He punctuated each word with another stab of his foot.

  “Stop it!” I jammed my key into the ignition. “Do you think it’s fun for me? I’m doing the best I can.”

  Silence like a sudden intake of breath, frozen and held, answered me.

  I glanced back at Bryan. He stared at me as if a wicked sorcerer had zapped his mom with an irrationality spell. Suddenly the doctor’s comments didn’t seem so ridiculous. The moods I’d been battling were hurting my son. Neither of us knew this stranger I’d become.

  I swallowed hard and met his hurt gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.”

  His dark brows drew together under his bangs. “Will the victim person make you feel better?”

  So he had been listening to my conversation with the doctor. Drat.

  I started the car and tried to remember how to
find the road home. “I doubt it.”

  For once, he didn’t jabber, and with only a few wrong turns, we arrived home a half-hour later. Our house slouched under the trees as if it were a sullen teen saying, “Oh, you again?” Why had we left our weathered old two-story in Wisconsin? That wrap-around front porch had always greeted us like a dimpled grandmother with open arms.

  I got out of the car and Bryan joined me on the sidewalk.

  Laura-Beth waved from her yard. Didn’t she ever go inside? “Hiya, neighbor. Say, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’ve noticed your grass is getting long.”

  Yeah, because I didn’t have a pit bull to scratch it all to the ground.

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy. Tom usually does the mowing, and since he’s at sea . . .” I was still getting used to saying that phrase. My husband is at sea. Conjured visions of lighthouses and whaling ships. My rugged man standing boldly at the prow, salt spray and rays of sunset kissing his face. Oh, Tom, I miss you.

  “I kin git you some names of boys in the neighborhood who hire out for yard work.” She flashed her gap-toothed grin. “Or you could always buy a goat.”

  I forced an answering laugh and hustled Bryan into the house. Yard work. Goat. Hmm. Could I buy a goat on the Internet? Was there a store called Goats R Us?

  When I turned from locking the door, Bryan was standing on the rug watching me. “Mom, what’s a panic attack?”

  Feigning nonchalance, I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think it’s when someone feels scared for no reason.”

  Bryan pulled off his shoes, shaking sand onto the floor. He looked up at me with all the earnestness of a seven-year-old. “But you do have a reason, don’t you?”

  My brilliant son. Tears stung the back of my eyes, and I knelt and opened my arms. He threw his arms around my neck, and I squeezed him hard. His matter-of-fact acceptance eased my shame, but it also kindled my determination.

  I had to find a way to shake this off. For Bryan, for Tom, for all the people who counted on me.

  After my son wiggled away and ran off to play, I stayed on the floor, huddled on my knees.